Hard Edge

I can't believe it's come to this. I'm basically forced into tutoring some hockey star, and all because my deadbeat dad couldn't get his shit together to sign off on my financial aid papers. I've been trying to get myself declared an independent for four years, but it never seems to matter. My dad's income is the basis for my aid package, which means he has to sign off on the forms I prepare for him each semester. All of a sudden, my awesome work-study job with the math department evaporates because my dad lost the damn form under a stack of empty beer cans. 

By the time I re-filled out all the paperwork and drove it to him at work to sign, before zooming four hours back to the university bursar's office, all the work-study jobs were allocated. Except one. 

I can still hear the department chair's nasal voice as he pressed his fingers together. "Well, Ms…Ward…zinski is it?" 

I nodded. Of course he stumbled over my name. "Just call me Dahlia," I huffed, massaging my temples. At the sight of his raised eyebrows, I remembered my tone and added, "Professor Myer," tacking on a smile for good measure.

"Right! Good, good. Dahlia! I know you've spent the past…six? Really all six semesters? Goodness, this must come as a blow. I know you've spent your entire college career so far leading the freshman math study groups. But the timing of this snaggle is really rather serendipitous! We've got a special case on our hands and I think you're just the right student to help us out."

So then he went on to tell me allllll about this super special hockey player who is a big hit with the special alumni boosters, destined for the pros, yada yada, and oh yeah! He sucks at math and his GPA is skirting the line for academic ineligibility. My new mission, should I choose to accept it (which…duh…I have no choice because I can't pay my tuition otherwise) is to make sure Neal Sweeney remains academically eligible to play hockey for Stone Creek University.

I have now been waiting in the student union for Neal Sweeney for 14 minutes. I don't give a shit what they say. I'm counting this waiting time towards my paid tutoring time. I've just about reached peak annoyance when I see him swagger in. I know it's him both because I googled him and also because he's about twice the size of everyone else wandering around the coffee cart. 

He looks around for half a second, sees me, and sits opposite me without comment. He doesn't even have anything with him. Who the hell walks around a college campus with no backpack? I find myself wondering where he even keeps his student ID, but that leads me to stare at his mesh shorts looking for a pocket. Staring at Neal Sweeney's mesh shorts makes me blush, which makes me lose my composure. 

I knew he was good looking from his picture online. He's got a strong jaw and bright blue eyes. When I saw the picture online I thought maybe it was just a trick of the monitor, but no. His eyes really are a vibrant, glowing blue. Neal's eyebrows and lashes are dark brown, but the hair on his head is multi-toned. Some of it is so blond it's nearly white, but other streaks are the same dark as his eyebrows. All of it curls wildly from his head, falling all different directions. I've never seen hair like his, and to my horror, I find myself wondering what it would feel like to run my fingers through those springy curls. 

I'm staring at him, flushed and open-mouthed, when he raises an eyebrow and finally speaks. "Do I have something on my face?"

His voice startles me back into professional mode. I put on my stern voice and say, "No. I'm staring at you because I've been waiting for you to apologize for being late. Do they not teach manners when your coach talks about sportsmanlike conduct?"

He scoffs and settles deeper into the chair. "There was a line for the trainer after practice."

There is a prolonged pause where I realize he's not going to apologize to me, and I feel a power struggle emerging. "Look, Neal, you don't have to like what we do here and it's actually no skin off my back if our work doesn't help you bring up your math grade. But you do have to treat me respectfully or I'm out."

Another long silence. We're up to a half hour past our scheduled start time. I decide I'm going to bill for the full hour and I sigh, shove my notebook back in my bag, and rise to walk out. As I pass his chair, he shoots a massive hand out and grabs my knee. He doesn't touch me harshly, but the electric shock I feel from his hand throws me off guard and I can't help myself. I gasp. Loud.